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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587501">Call It Payback</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk'>amscray_punk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Yes, Chef [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, ao3 why do you make me tag things, guh ok, idiots having sex at work, mmk that's enough, uhh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:01:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Chef Spot &amp; bartender Race are not model employees, exactly. What happened right after Yes, Chef.</p><p>*Smut. You have been warned.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Yes, Chef [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Call It Payback</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi, back again with more shameless smut. I blame bad influences for this. And by bad I obviously mean good.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Here’s how this is gonna go.”</p><p> </p><p>Race heard the words, vaguely recognized them as such, but couldn’t quite process any further than that. Of course, he couldn’t be blamed for this lapse in brain function; he was fairly certain that being pressed into a solid wood door by none other than Chef Conlon while his mouth worked steadily down his neck would cause anyone’s brain to short-circuit. He slid his hands into Spot’s silky hair, tilting his head to the side to offer him better access to his throat. Spot took advantage, dragging his lips up the side of his neck where he paused. Race squirmed, eyes fluttering at the feeling of Spot’s gentle breath on his sensitive skin. Spot seemed to be waiting for something.</p><p> </p><p>“H-how what’s gonna go?” Race whispered. Spot chuckled lowly, and the vibrations drew a soft whimper that turned quickly into an outright moan when Spot bit down on his neck. His knees buckled; Spot was making it <em>very </em>hard to think, and he was rather proud of himself when he managed to cut through the fog enough to say, “Shit, Spot, don’t leave marks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?” He murmured, still close enough that his lips brushed Race’s skin when he spoke. The gentle touch immediately after the sharp, pleasurable pain was dizzying, and Race only just remembered <em>why not</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s- my tips,” <em>Come on Tony, full sentences, you can do it.</em> “I won’t be as pretty for my customers.”</p><p> </p><p>“Disagree.” Spot punctuated the statement with another nip to his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Race breathed, grip tightening in Spot’s hair. “Lookin’ pretty is my money maker, baby.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot pulled back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “You shoulda thought of that before you straddled me in my office.” Spot kissed him then, and Race only had a second to kiss him back before Spot’s lips were moving down the other side of his neck, thoroughly distracting him again. “Couldn’t leave for twenty minutes, thanks to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,”</p><p> </p><p>“No you’re not,”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right,” Race admitted, grinning. Spot retaliated by pulling the collar of Race’s shirt aside with a finger and latching on to his collar bone. “Shit,” Race hissed as his head dropped back against the door. Well, technically he couldn’t complain about the placement—and he didn’t really want to.</p><p> </p><p>“Here’s how this is gonna go,” Spot said again when he pulled away, looking satisfied with his work. Race’s hands slid from Spot’s hair to his shoulders, dropping to twist in the fabric of his coat as he waited. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions. For every correct answer, you’ll be rewarded,” Spot’s fingers were at the collar of his shirt again, toying with the top button. Race bit his lip, pupils blown wide. “For each wrong answer… well, you’ll see. Do you understand?” Race nodded. “I can’t hear you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” He whispered, nodding again.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes…?”</p><p> </p><p>Race swallowed hard, his breathing already ragged. “Yes, Chef,”</p><p> </p><p>Spot nodded approvingly. “Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Race had only meant to think it, but the filter between his brain and his mouth was paper-thin on a good day, and he couldn’t be held responsible for what he said in his present situation.</p><p> </p><p>“Focus.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Chef.” Race watched Spot’s eyes flash at that and he grinned. Spot smirked in response and Race swallowed; he had a feeling he was in for it. Spot weaved a hand into his hair, not <em>too</em> tight but firmly, and Race nearly forgot what exactly he was supposed to be focusing on. He felt Spot’s other hand settle on his hip.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll start with an easy one,” Spot murmured, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to Race’s lips before moving to his jaw. “If the special tomorrow is roasted chicken and winter veggies, which wine are you recommending?”</p><p> </p><p>Wine, wine… right, that’s what had gotten him here in the first place. Okay, he could do this, he knew wine.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh,” Race stuttered, closing his eyes as Spot worked his way along his jaw, pausing just below his ear. “Red or white?”</p><p> </p><p>“Both.” Spot answered, tugging on Race’s hair to tilt his head as he continued to press maddeningly soft kisses down his neck. Race exhaled sharply, willing his brain to work.</p><p> </p><p>“S-sauv blanc for white,” He managed, noticing distantly that he had an almost uncomfortably tight grip on Spot’s coat. “Merlot for red.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not that cheap shit, though.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Chef,” Race agreed.</p><p> </p><p>“Very good,” Race felt a little thrill go through him at the praise. Spot’s hands moved to the collar of his shirt again. This time, he carefully unbuttoned it, going far too slowly for Race’s liking but he didn’t dare complain; just held his lip in his teeth as he watched, trying not to squirm impatiently. Spot undid every single button but then he stopped, leaving Race leaning against the door with his shirt open, tie still hanging around his neck. Race gently touched the loosened knot, an eyebrow raised in question, but Spot shook his head. “Leave it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Chef.” Spot hummed appreciatively before he leaned in to explore the newly exposed skin of Race’s collar bone and chest. He nipped lightly at the mark he’d made earlier, drawing a breathy moan as Race’s head fell back again.</p><p> </p><p>“Someone sits at the bar,” Spot mused, pressing a kiss in the hollow of Race’s throat. “And orders a malbec without looking at the menu. They ask you for suggestions. What do you say?”</p><p> </p><p>Race grinned. It just so happened he’d had a guest almost exactly like that earlier that evening, so the answer came easily; forming the words, however, not so much. Spot’s hands had dropped to his hips and his thumbs were rubbing extremely distracting circles into his skin. “I’d suggest they start with a cheese plate,” He managed, shakily.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, good answer,”</p><p> </p><p>“Hng,” Race could hardly think. “Thank you, Chef.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot’s hands slid up his sides under his shirt, drawing a light shudder as he pressed his lips to Race’s pulse point again. “And for dinner?”</p><p> </p><p>“The l-lamb,” Race stuttered. Spot hummed against his skin.</p><p> </p><p>“Well done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Chef.” Race had no idea how he’d managed to pull that one out, but he had a feeling Spot’s little quiz wasn’t about to get any easier. Spot brushed his hands over Race’s chest, moving upward to push his shirt off his shoulders onto the floor. His tie remained. Spot gripped the knot of his tie and yanked him forward into a bruising kiss; Race stumbled slightly but Spot wrapped a steadying arm around his waist. Race tilted his head to deepen the kiss as Spot walked him backward again. He shivered when his back hit the cold wooden door but he was quickly distracted by Spot’s hands dropping to his belt. Spot pressed into him as they kissed, and Race moaned rather shamelessly when he felt him against his thigh, hard and demanding. He reached down, hooking a finger in the waistband of Spot’s pants—</p><p> </p><p>“Nope,” Spot had pulled back just far enough to speak, catching Race’s wrist in his hand and pinning it to the door. “Next question.” Race gulped, trying to get his breathing under control. “They want dessert, but they don’t like any of our options—”</p><p> </p><p>“How’s that possible?” Race asked, hazily indignant—despite the fictional customer being, well, fictional. “Even the crème brûlée?” Spot chuckled, releasing Race’s wrist. Race quickly worked his hand back into Spot’s hair, gasping when Spot ducked his head to kiss down his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Even the crème brûlée,” Spot murmured against his skin, holding Race by his hips as he knelt down further to kiss each one of his abs in slow succession. Race squirmed—well, he tried to, but Spot held him firmly in place and he settled on a rather (un)dignified whine, instead. “They say they’d rather drink their dessert. What are you offering?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll show you what I’m offering,” Race muttered without thinking; Spot stopped moving then, pulling back and looking up through his lashes at him. Race hurried to correct himself. “I mean, sorry Chef, I, uh—” Spot’s lips were on him again, ghosting over the skin above his waistband. “Ice wine, fuck. I’m offering ice wine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very good, Racer.” Race’s head dropped against the door again, eyes falling closed.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you Chef, oh—" The whispered words cut off in a gasp when Spot stood and unbuckled Race’s belt and pants in one swift movement. His pants hung off of one slim hip and his breath hitched when he felt Spot run a finger just inside the waistband of his boxers.</p><p> </p><p>“Last question.”</p><p> </p><p>Race took a shuddering breath in. He could do this. Spot gripped his tie with his other hand, pulling it up and a little over Race’s shoulder so that it pressed into his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” He breathed as his heart started to pound. Spot leaned in to brush his lips against his ear.</p><p> </p><p>“I was thinking about making the special Italian tomorrow,” Spot spoke almost thoughtfully, as if he were actually asking Race’s opinion on the matter. “Classic red sauce, y’know.” Spot pulled on his tie a little harder and Race’s eyes rolled back in his head. He was almost painfully hard and suddenly, Spot’s hand was in his pants and he was touching him over his boxer briefs and Race <em>couldn’t think</em>. “What are you serving with dinner?” Had he been watching the scene instead of living it, he might have laughed; Spot was talking about <em>sauce, </em>for fuck’s sake, and Race was putty in his hands. He opened his mouth to speak but cut off in a strangled gasp when Spot’s hand slipped into his underwear.</p><p> </p><p>“I—mm, <em>fuck</em>, Spot,” Race whimpered as Spot’s hand moved against him, wiping every last coherent thought from his mind.</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t sound like a wine to me, Racer.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Race was beyond functioning, now, as Spot stroked him steadily, one hand still twisted in his tie. He had completely forgotten everything he knew about wine. His head dropped against the door as he focused just on breathing, on remaining standing, on Spot’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Three seconds.” Spot gripped him tighter.</p><p> </p><p>Race made a sound that was almost like words and he opened his eyes. <em>Just say something, anything! </em>“C-cabernet,” He stuttered, extremely proud of himself for remembering that cabernet sauvignon was, in fact, a type of wine. He felt the pressure of his tie lessen slightly as Spot pulled back, stilling the motion of his hand. Race focused on Spot’s face, with difficulty, noting he looked mildly disappointed and quite smug.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that your final answer?” <em>Oh, shit.</em></p><p> </p><p>Race gulped and nodded; he regretted it immediately when Spot pulled his hand from his pants, shaking his head. “Wha—”</p><p> </p><p>“Wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wha- noo, cab goes with everything!” Race protested, gripping Spot’s coat in an attempt to pull him back to him. Spot chuckled.</p><p> </p><p>“Cab sauv with a tomato sauce?” He asked, almost incredulously. “Racer.” It was almost scolding, the way Spot said his name, and the rush of disappointment mingled with desperate arousal made his head spin.</p><p> </p><p>“That was a trick question,” He whined, although he knew it was no use. Spot was bending down to retrieve his discarded shirt, holding it out to him. Race huffed, snatching his shirt and slipping his arms into it. “You’re fuckin’ evil, you know that?” Spot shrugged, smirking.</p><p> </p><p>“Call it payback.”</p><p> </p><p>“I call it a fuckin’ tease,” Race mumbled under his breath.</p><p> </p><p>Spot laughed at that and Race just caught the word “audacity” before Spot tugged him forward by his tie into another kiss. This one was less frantic; more of a promise. Race sank against him, legs still slightly trembling. He swiped his tongue across Spot’s bottom lip, moaning softly when Spot opened his mouth to let him in. He fisted his hands in Spot’s coat, making sure he had a solid grip before he took an aggressive step forward and spun them around, taking Spot by surprise when Race slammed him against the door, this time. Race chuckled, eyes twinkling with mischief. He clutched Spot’s coat firmly in one hand, running the other down his side until he reached the elastic waistband of his houndstooth pants.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer,” Spot warned softly. Race thought he sounded a little shaky.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me, Spotty,” Race said conversationally, thoroughly enjoying the shift in dynamic as he ducked down to nip at Spot’s neck, next. “What’s the point in wearing comfy pants like these if you’re not gonna take advantage?” Race moved his hand to grope Spot through his pants, biting his lip when Spot’s head dropped against the door, eyes falling shut.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer,” He said again, and his voice was definitely weaker this time. “Even if I wasn’t your b-boss—oh, <em>shit</em>,” Spot cursed when Race dropped to his knees, fingers from both hands hooked in Spot’s waistband. Race tugged gently, pulling Spot’s boxers down with his pants. He settled one hand on Spot’s hip and wrapped the other around his cock, looking up through his lashes as innocently as he could manage.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you really gonna tell me no, right now?” Race watched as Spot’s mouth opened and promptly closed before he swallowed hard. There it was, Race realized with a sly smile—that perfect mixture of exasperation and want. He couldn’t help himself; he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the head without looking away. His free hand slid into his own underwear, breath stuttering as he took himself in hand. Something snapped behind Spot’s gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Spot said shortly. Race grinned; it never did take much convincing. “But keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”</p><p> </p><p>Race’s jaw dropped, indignant. “Spotty—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know who I’m dealin’ with,” Spot smirked, suddenly smug again. Reluctantly, Race pulled his hand from his pants, settling it on Spot’s hip once again. “You’re waitin’ til we get home.” Race’s heart thudded in his chest; did he just say…?</p><p> </p><p>“…home, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot inhaled sharply, jaw clenching as he acknowledged his slip. “Shut your mouth,” He muttered, twisting one hand into Race’s hair.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you wanted me to keep it op—” Race cut off in a gasp when Spot gripped tightly, pulling his head back so that his face was tipped up. Spot looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. Race couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him as he whispered, “Yes, Chef.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot took the invitation and jerked him forward by his hair. His head fell back against the door when Race closed his mouth over him. He focused on breathing through his nose as he took Spot as far as he could manage without choking; his lips met his fingers where they still wrapped around him and he moved back again, settling into a quick rhythm.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuckin’ hell, Racer,” Spot groaned, still holding Race’s hair tightly even as he let him set the pace. Race hummed happily at the praise, drawing another string of curses out of Spot. He pulled off with a pop, using his saliva to work his hand up and down while he caught his breath. He closed his lips just over the head, continuing the quick movement of his hand while he held Spot against the door with the other. “Shit, baby, you’re so good—” Spot broke off in a moan when Race took him fully in his mouth again and relaxed his throat. He continued to pump his hand to meet his lips, reveling in the gasps and groans that fell from Spot’s lips from the contrasting sensations.</p><p> </p><p>Race’s eyes had fluttered closed as he focused on pleasing Spot, so it came as something of a surprise when he felt his airway suddenly constrict, just slightly. He looked up to see Spot clutching his tie with his free hand, and the sight of Spot so completely controlling him—one hand in his hair, one twisted in the tie, cock in his mouth—tore a downright obscene moan from his throat as his rhythm faltered. The hand on Spot’s hip twitched; he dug his fingers into his skin and Spot hissed in response, pulling tighter on his tie. Race shuddered, tightening his grip around Spot’s dick as he pulled off, panting.</p><p> </p><p>“If I’m so good,” He started, swallowing against the pressure of the fabric on his throat. He sounded wrecked, and he knew it; could feel the flush creeping up his neck. “Why won’t you let me touch myself?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot pulled upward with both hands and Race stumbled to his feet, gasping for breath—which was promptly stolen when Spot dragged him in for a searing kiss. Race pressed eagerly into him, bringing his hands up to grasp either side of Spot’s jaw as he kissed him back hungrily. Race broke away, reaching down to continue jerking him off as he leaned in to press his lips to Spot’s ear.</p><p> </p><p>“I did good, didn’t I?” He murmured; Spot shivered, cursing. “Three outta four ain’t bad, right?” Spot groaned in response, bucking into Race’s hand. Race smirked; he wouldn’t last much longer. He pressed himself into Spot’s thigh and nipped at his earlobe, letting out a rather pathetic whimper when the contact was a little more than he bargained for. “<em>Please</em>, Chef.” No, Race was not above begging—especially when he knew what it did to Spot.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Spot turned and kissed him again—filthy, needy—before he jerked Race’s head to the side to hiss into his ear. “You and this fuckin’ tie.” Race giggled.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that a yes?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot’s jaw clenched in that way that told Race he was <em>this close </em>to getting his way. He bit his lip shamelessly and Spot pulled him in for one more hard kiss before he shoved him roughly back to his knees. Race’s tie hung, wrinkled, around his neck but Spot’s other hand stayed in his hair, guiding him. Race looked up through his lashes, his mouth inches from where Spot wanted him, waiting. “Fine, but don’t make a mess.” Spot ground out through gritted teeth. Race shot him a dazzling smile as he gripped his cock again, tugging once.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Chef,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the head before sinking against him again. He resumed his earlier contrasting movements of hand and mouth, falling into a quick, frantic rhythm that he knew would have Spot moaning his name in mere moments. Race slipped his free hand back into his boxers, wrapping his fingers hastily around his cock and stroking just as quickly, drawing a desperate moan that sent a shudder through Spot as he bobbed his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer, shit,” Spot panted, his grip in Race’s hair just this side of painful as his eyes fell shut. Race heard Spot’s breathing sharpen into short little gasps and knew he was getting close. He tightened his grip around his own dick, forcing his eyes back open when they fluttered from the sensation. He surged forward, moaning deep in his throat; his nose grazed Spot’s abdomen and suddenly, Spot was coming, holding Race’s head still as his hips stuttered. Race swallowed dutifully as his hand continued to move inside his boxers. “<em>Fuck</em>, Tony,” Spot groaned, softly, and the tight coil in Race’s stomach snapped and he came hard, eyes rolling back as he moaned around Spot. There was something so <em>fucking</em> <em>hot</em> about Spot moaning his name, his real name, and he wasn’t at all surprised that’s what pushed him over the edge.</p><p> </p><p>Race pulled back, shaking, and rested his forehead against Spot’s abdomen for a moment, catching his breath. Spot’s grip in his hair loosened and suddenly he was running his fingers gently through his curls, waiting patiently for Race to come back to himself. He pulled his sticky hand from his pants as he finally stopped panting, casting a quick glance around the small closet for a towel.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit, do you have—” Race’s face split into a wide grin when he turned back to Spot, who’d retrieved the kitchen towel from his back pocket and was holding it out to him. “Thanks, Chef.” Race winked at him as he stood, cleaning his hand. He was still a little unsteady on his feet as he fastened his pants, grimacing against the discomfort in his boxers; he was suddenly incredibly grateful that Spot had a car and they wouldn’t be leaving on public transport. He buttoned his shirt with fingers that trembled slightly, not bothering with the top few buttons. He noticed distractedly that Spot looked just the same as he had when he’d entered—chef coat crisp and clean, pants back where they belonged—quite the contrast to Race’s half-buttoned shirt and loose, wrinkled tie hanging around his neck. Spot reached out suddenly, brushing his fingertips over the mark he’d left on Race’s collarbone. Race’s breath hitched. “Spot…”</p><p> </p><p>“C’mon,” Spot said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go home.”</p><p> </p><p>There it was again; <em>home.</em> Race swallowed, nodding as Spot turned to open the door. Race followed him silently, mind racing. They had yet to define their relationship, but there was a trust between them that was a little too instinctual for friends with benefits, under a layer of lust so intense that Race had just jerked off into his underwear in a fucking closet <em>at work</em> without a second thought. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be the night that he worked up the courage to talk to Spot about it. About them.</p><p> </p><p>Spot did a quick check of the kitchen and dining room before turning off the lights and leading Race out to the parking lot behind the restaurant. Race tucked himself into Spot’s side, shivering against the cold as they walked quickly to Spot’s car. He waited rather impatiently for Spot to unlock the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He glanced at his watch; immediately forgot what time he’d read there when he suddenly looked up at Spot, eyes wide.</p><p> </p><p>“Um, Spotty…?” Spot glanced up, quirking an eyebrow in question. “Don’t be mad.”</p><p> </p><p>“No promises.”</p><p> </p><p>“I, uh, sorta… forgot to clock out,” Race said in a rush, grimacing sheepishly. “You’re gonna have to adjust that, tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot dropped his forehead against the roof of his car, letting out a long, weary sigh. After a moment he looked up, staring over the top of the car at Race with a look that wanted to be furious, but came across as frustrated and maybe even a little amused.</p><p> </p><p>“Fired, Higgins. You’re gonna get me fuckin’ fired.”</p>
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